


Aire & Angels

by stormyks



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M, Pining, rainy day melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormyks/pseuds/stormyks
Summary: Armie stumbles across a portrait on a rainy Sunday in London.





	Aire & Angels

**Author's Note:**

> There's an exhibit right now at the National Portrait Gallery in London called Aire & Angels by Elizabeth Peyton that includes a portrait of Elio and Oliver in the post-midnight scene. When I heard about this today, I somehow had to write about it. Thanks to ginger1982 on tumblr for pointing out the portrait.
> 
> My apologies for any liberties I've taken with the geography of London and also for inevitable grammar errors.

The skies were gray and close and a slight drizzle was falling over London. The dampness seemed to hush even the gentle Sunday afternoon hum of the city. He’d been walking around mostly aimlessly for an hour or so, avoiding the eyes of anyone passing by, a cap tucked tightly over his head, shielding his face.

Hughie was busy with his daughters this morning. Richmond was playing an out of town game later that afternoon, so none of the guys would be at the pub. The Ritchie’s were on their yacht, somewhere around Amalfi, probably. And, in a mood that matched the gray clouds above, he wasn’t feeling up to hanging out with co-stars he barely knew. It was 3am in California and everything he loved most in the world was there, asleep. 

What he wouldn’t give right now to feel some sunshine on his face. To take the kids to the beach, build sand castles and chase them through the surf. He’d seen the pictures of him there too, in the sunshine, with his sunglasses and riotous curls...and her. On this damp and aimless Sunday in London, it seemed like the universe couldn’t get any more cruel---that she was the one who got to hold his hand and walk around in the LA sunshine. In his city, while he was here.

If he was home, maybe they could have biked together over to the taco stand by the 10. He’d never gotten the chance to take him there, even though they had the best carne asada in town. They could spend the afternoon by the pool, playing with the kids. He ached for it.

The wandering had taken him through Mayfair and Soho, and he turned then to head down to the river. Walking down Charing Cross Road, the damp drizzle started to accumulate into a proper rain. He had forgotten his umbrella again, he realized with a quiet curse. The Londonders were always ready for this, trained to expect the gray to turn to rain rather than burn off into brilliant sunshine. As it started to come down more strongly, he moved to take refuge in the open entryway of the National Portrait Gallery.

He hadn’t been here before, despite his many months in London over the years. Standing in the entry he realized he had nothing to do for the next few hours till he could FaceTime the kids while they ate their pancakes, and he might as well go in. It was free and the rain was coming down even harder outside. 

He walked through the arched hallways in search of the quietest rooms. Not many people were around, but even so he hated the idea of having to make small talk or refuse pictures, so he wanted to avoid being recognized. He kept his hat pushed down over his eyes, even inside. Finding a mostly empty room, he wandered to each portrait and forced himself to examine them, one by one. He tried to read the look on their faces, but everyone looked dour. But perhaps that was just his own mood reflected back at him.

Moving on to another hall, he was faced with more modern portraits. Large slashes of color in oil paint, smudgy and indistinct up close, like a memory blurring around the edges.

Then he turned to look to the next portrait across the room and froze. He stared, bewildered, unable to quite make sense of what he was seeing. Strangely enough the first thing his muddled brain offered up was a recollection of how Tim smelled that day. They’d been in each others arms for hours, his lips on the curve of Tim’s neck, his nose burrowed in Tim’s hairline. He remembered the smell of his shampoo and his sweat. The strength of this memory was overwhelming, unprepared as he was to see the two of them up on the wall of the gallery on this random Sunday. He blinked, looked around the room, then back at the painting. It was still there, this was not in his head. He thought of those memories so often, daydreaming about walking home from Luca’s late at night, of Tim in his apartment having a beer, or, even better, of Tim in his arms. But this was real--canvas, paint, a frame.

He felt like he was hallucinating. He had wandered London all morning, thinking of Tim, and then he randomly ends up here looking at them together in the National Portrait Gallery. What was going on? 

He walked up to the portrait. He was glad it was of a moment where you couldn’t see his face. He remembers the cut Luca chose for that scene and feels a tinge of embarrassment over the fact that when he watched it, he couldn’t see Oliver, only himself. In the portrait, his thumb is on Tim’s earlobe, he remembers how velvety-soft it felt, his fingertips in the short curls at the back of his neck. 

He stood in front of the portrait, lost in thought, till he heard people walk into the gallery. Tilting down his cap, he turned away and walked towards the door, pausing to take a picture of the description of the portrait and the name of the artist with his phone. He walked back to the museum entrance and grabbed the brochure describing the exhibition. 

The rain was still coming down outside, but he forgot to care. He walked dazed through Trafalgar Square and then over to Embankment and got on the tube towards Richmond. By the time he reached the stop, he felt a growing sense of clarity, and perhaps a little bit of peace.

Arriving at his flat, he stripped off the wet clothes and put on sweats, towelled off his dripping hair. He started the kettle and flipped open his laptop on the couch. His first message was to the curator at the Hammer Galleries in New York, a short email on the topic of anonymously acquiring a painting. His next message was a text to Tim. 

“Hi from London. I miss you.”

The kettle finished and he poured the hot water over a tea bag. The sound of his phone ringing interrupted him as he watched the tea steep. On the phone flashed an image of Tim, smiling in the sunshine. Armie grinned and grabbed the phone, his Earl Gray forgotten on the counter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stormyks at tumblr if you want to chat!


End file.
